Job Description
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Who's the designated driver?


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note: **This one follows on after "Kids" and "Chain of Reasoning" and precedes the next episode, "Hotshoes", in which Mark receives an invitation to takeover for an injured friend as the driver for the Denco racing team.

**Job Description**

by L.M. Lewis

Hardcastle lost the game and the wager by four points. Finding himself saddled with the responsibility for dinner, he resorted to his back-up plan.

"How's Barney's sound? I haven't had a hotdog in a couple weeks."

Mark had been wiping his face on the stretched-out end of the t-shirt he was wearing—one more stain among the rest. He paused, looked at the grimy wad of shirt in his hands, and then at the judge.

"How 'bout a rain check on that?"

"Too tired, huh?" Hardcastle chuckled. "Twenty points with a guy twice your age and you want to call it a day?"

"It's not the twenty, Hardcase, it's the ten hours of work I put in _before_ beating you—not to mention I'd have to get cleaned up first. By the time we got down there, I'd probably be about ready to fall asleep face-down in my chili. You go if you want. There's leftover pizza."

The judge frowned. All this self-sacrifice wasn't McCormick's usual M.O.

"That last hit to the breadbasket—I didn't mean to let ya have it quite that hard."

"Huh?" Mark glanced down at the breadbasket in question, no more bruised than it had been that morning—and that damage was from one of the Cobras, who'd been plenty viperous. He finally looked up again with a mystified expression. "Since when did you start apologizing for your elbows?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Just thought maybe I clipped you—"

Mark shook his head in exasperation. "I'll let you know when I can't take it anymore. Look, gimme ten minutes. I at least gotta grab a shower and find some clothes that don't have cow crap ground into them." He turned and walked off without waiting for a response.

The judge stood there, blinking, not exactly sure where that had gone wrong. Most of the time he thought they got along pretty well these days, especially considering where they'd started from. He had to stop and consider, once in a while, just how little time had passed since McCormick had first hung his hat in the gatehouse.

_Not even two months_.

And yet that was very nearly a record for one of his rehab projects. Heck, it was sixty times longer than J.J. Beale had stuck it out. He suddenly realized he was making a face, something that might have been associated with sucking on a lemon. He pushed the memory of Beale off to one side and focused on the matter at hand.

00000

It was fifteen minutes, not ten. Hardcastle was waiting, mostly patiently, behind the wheel of the truck when Mark came out, scrubbed hastily clean, his hair damp.

"I figured the Coyote's still resting up," the judge said gruffly, already prepared for the squabble to start up where it had left off.

Instead, he only got a cautious nod of agreement from McCormick as he climbed in on the passenger side, and then one quick questioning look. "You want me to drive?"

"Nah," Hardcastle met the look quickly and then glanced away as he put the truck into gear. "I think you need the night off." Even only out of the corner of his eye he could see the younger man's puzzlement and it was a moment before Mark found anything to say.

"I was that bad, huh?"

"A little tense, maybe." He didn't go so far as to ask where it had come from.

"Sorry."

It was sullen, and Hardcastle would have preferred an explanation to an apology, but the one word was all he got and the silence that followed didn't seem very conducive to getting further information. He had the feeling that perfectly innocent questions at this juncture would be perceived as interrogation.

"Benny's sending the flatbed around in the morning for the Coyote," Mark finally offered.

It wasn't exactly neutral territory, but it might be closer to the heart of the problem. Hardcastle gave it a considering pause, where normally he would have gone for a full court press, something along the lines of how they just didn't make cars like they used to.

Instead he went for the far more practical, "Have him give me a call with the estimate."

But one quick look to the side revealed that this faultlessly generous remark hadn't gone down much better than an unintentional critique of Flip Johnson's design qualifications would have. Hardcastle discovered his patience was a lot thinner than he'd thought.

"Well, what's wrong with _that_?" he sputtered. "I'm paying for it, right?"

"Yeah," Mark muttered, all the sullenness back. Then he shook his head. "The problem is, you don't know anything about cars."

"The hell I don't—"

"Okay," the younger man interrupted him sharply before he could get his defense rolling, "you don't know anything about the Coyote. Hell, _I'm _still figuring some of it out, and I have Flip's notes. Anyway, Benny knows you don't know. He may be just about the best mechanic around when it comes to these precision machines, but that doesn't mean he won't take advantage of a situation."

"But that's—"

"How people like that think. You're a rich guy who doesn't know much about an expensive machine."

"And you?"

"I'm sure as hell not rich." Mark was staring out the window, off to his right. His head swung back suddenly. "Listen, I do know about cars. That might not be much, but I do. And I know about _that_ car . . . maybe more than anybody except a couple of guys down at Cody's old research department. If I had the equipment—and the time—I'd fix it myself."

He sighed. "_I_ won't rook you on this deal, if that's what you're worried about."

"'Course not," the judge said, before he'd even had a chance to think that one through and come up with a conscious answer.

There was the first hint of a smile on the younger man's face. Hardcastle, on the other hand, found himself frowning.

"So what was that shuck and jive back there all about?"

Mark look momentarily surprised, as though he'd already put it all behind him.

"I was just tired, I guess," he finally shrugged. "Hell of a long day—a long _week._ And you all ramped up and ready to drive into town. You know you oughta act your age once in a while, Hardcase."

There was a smile to go with that as well, but it seemed a little flat, as if the explanation was more convenient than complete. Still, things seemed back on a somewhat even keel, and the judge thought he might actually enjoy his hotdog with all the trimmings.

00000

The dinner crowd had thinned out, and being that it was a weeknight, they got a booth near the back with no problem. McCormick still seemed not his usual self but accepted the judge's suggestion of a beer with something approaching equanimity. There was a second beer and a plate of nachos before the hotdogs arrived, and a third beer to go along with the main course.

The judge nursed his first one. He hadn't worked up a thirst hauling fertilizer all afternoon and he'd already stated he'd be doing the driving home. The steady ingestion of six-percent alcohol didn't seem to be relaxing the younger man. If anything, he seemed more withdrawn, with his focus turned inward and no invitations being issued.

There was still some conversation, but it was of the superficial variety: the occasional sports score appearing on the TV up in the corner. Hardcastle purposefully avoided mentioning any upcoming chores. It was McCormick who finally brought that up.

"The truck, you noticed it?"

Hardcastle hadn't, whatever it was. Mark took one hand off the glass long enough to make a little revolving sign with his finger.

"It's having a little trouble turning over, and there's a tapping sound, right around 45."

"Aw, it does that sometimes. It's the thingamadoodle, you know—"

"The starter and the transmission?"

"Nah, the whatchamacallit_._ It's electrical."

"Well, yeah, or internal combustion—those'd be your two main choices, unless you've got the world's only nuclear-powered '58 pick-up."

"Okay, smart guy, you bein' so hot with cars and all, can you fix it?"

"Yeah." There was a note of reluctance to the admission.

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure." The reluctance had given way to indignation.

"'Cause I could have Benny take a look at it, too, while he's at it with the Coyote."

Mark waved that idea away with one hand. "Nothing in that Jimmy you can't take apart and put back together with a set of wrenches. Just add it to the list," he said wearily, and took another swig of beer.

Hardcastle frowned at that last comment but didn't have a chance to respond before the younger man continued on.

"It wasn't even all that bad a day." He leaned back in the bench seat and slumped a little. "I mean, nobody shooting at us and I didn't have to duck any punches."

"You need to get better at that."

"Listen, they might've just been punk kids, but there were a bunch of them, and one of 'em had a gun, _okay_?"

Hardcastle nodded.

"Anyhow," Mark returned to his philosophizing, "I guess it just sort of snuck up on me, ya know. Another day—another _week_—and what do I have to show for it? Me _and_ the Coyote are both banged up."

"Weren't you the one who was telling me that bagging a big-time slimeball like Shelcroft was worth a hacked-up bush?"

"Judge, I can run down to the plant place and pick up another bush." He stared at the table top for a frozen moment, as if suddenly aware of what he'd said. He furrowed his brow. "Not that I think we have to. It looks better now . . . less cluttered." He peeked up and then settled back again, the slump of resignation more pronounced. "Anyway, like I said, another day with the bale-toting—"

"You tote the _barge_," Hardcastle corrected gently. "The bales get lifted."

"Yeah, well, another day older and deeper in debt."

"That's a different song."

"All the same, though. The story of my life. No forward progress. I thought . . ."

The silence hung over the table. Hardcastle finally broached the question.

"Thought what?"

Mark fidgeted slightly. He wasn't making any direct eye contact. "I always thought I'd get back into racing when I got out. I did last time. I was doing pretty good, too. This time it didn't happen right away. Two years is a long time. People stop thinking about you. Everyone forgets."

"Racing's not the only thing worth doing."

"It's what I'm good at. I made good money doing it, too."

"Is that what's important, how much money you make?"

"Doesn't matter," Mark said grimly, evading the question. "I'm a two-time loser. Nobody wants me as their draft pick these days."

"A loser, huh?" The judge shook his head. "I dunno, you've helped bust a couple of murderers—one of 'em a mob hit man, you nailed a guy who was putting the screws to an old buddy of yours, and just last week we broke up a drug running operation."

"And I've mowed the lawn three times already."

"Yeah," Hardcastle ducked his chin in quick acknowledgment. "With all that goin' on, I wouldn't've thought you had _time_ to be a loser."

"Thanks, Hardcase . . . I think." Mark smiled wanly.

"Well . . . it's just the truth," the judge huffed.

"I suppose it is." Mark hefted his glass and quaffed what was left of it. He set it down and looked like another one or two might suit his mood. Then came a little shake of the head, as though a switch had been thrown—a decision made. "We oughta hit the road, don'tcha think? That flatbed'll be 'round early tomorrow."

Hardcastle flagged the waitress. The bill was delivered and dealt with.

"Thanks," Mark said and they pried themselves free from the booth.

"Three beers and a hotdog?" Hardcastle lifted one eyebrow. "You're a cheap date."

Mark shrugged. "And how many of your dates'll patch up your truck, too? You bet I'm cheap."

"You sure about the truck? I can't just tell Benny to—"

"I'm _sure_."

"Well, I figured I'd pay you for that," the judge added magnanimously as they strolled out of the eatery. "Fair's fair. It's not exactly in your job description."

"What, you ran out of paper?"

"Somethin' like that," Hardcastle said over his shoulder and he crossed around the front of the truck. He stuffed his hand in his jacket pocket, rustling after his keys and pulling them out triumphantly. "She's a good old girl. Twenty-five years of faithful service." He smiled and patted the GMC on the hood.

"So how much are you gonna pay me to straighten her out?"

Hardcastle pursed his lips and climbed in on his side. He leaned over and unlocked the passenger door.

"Might be a lot to overhaul," Mark added as he opened the door on his side. "'Indefinitely' only works with ex-cons. For trucks there's a definite 'definitely' and twenty-five years is about ten years past that. Then there's parts . . . might be better to just junk her and start fresh."

The judge looked shocked.

"Just kidding, Judge," Mark assured him hastily, then reached out and patted the dashboard. Then he cast a quick sideward glance. "How much . . . or is it gonna be in beer and hotdogs?"

"I was thinking five bucks?"

"_Twenty_."

"Ten."

"Ten," Mark replied glumly.

"Which is pretty good considering you were figuring you'd be doing it for nothing."

"It's all relative, huh? Well, I used to make that much in about a quarter lap." He fell silent, staring out the window again after a moment he started up again, with a quieter, more thoughtful tone.

"But it wasn't ever about the money. Not _really_."

"You thought it was, though, huh?"

"Maybe." Mark frowned. "I guess I did. But if I got another chance . . ." He halted and shook his head.

"You never know." Hardcastle shrugged. "It could happen."

Mark glanced sideward at him. His eyes narrowed. "You'd let me?"

Another shrug. "Might. Depends."

"On what?" Mark asked suspiciously.

"On lots of stuff. I'm your parole officer. I'm responsible for ya—for your safety."

The laughter was raucous and immediate and it was a few seconds before Mark could gasp out, "My _safety_?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle replied belligerently.

Mark was wiping his eyes. "Okay, well, at least out there nobody was _trying _to kill me. My safety," he repeated, chuckling to himself.

"Anyway," Hardcastle interrupted his merriment, "I'd at least think about it."

"Really? _Promise_?"

He sounded like a kid, putting it that way . . . and after all, it was only at best a 'maybe', and one that even Mark would admit was hardly likely to be invoked.

Hardcastle took one hand off the steering wheel and crossed his heart. The whole notion was utterly ridiculous.

"Promise," he said.


End file.
